


Passage

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Coraline (2009), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bullying, Canon-Typical Creepiness (Coraline), Child Ainsley, Child Malcolm, Crossover, Fake Jessica, Fake Martin, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Coraline, Minor Original Character(s), Supernatural Elements, Suspense, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28880046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Malcolm recognizes the black and white hounds tooth suit dress which is one of his mother’s favorite outfits.  The golden links earrings are another piece which his mother favors.  As are the slightly thick golden chain links encircling her neck.  He cannot, for the life of him, explain the ruffled white apron.“Mother?” says Malcolm cautiously.“You’re just in time for dinner, sweetheart,” she says, smiling with pink lipstick.  Her high heels click against the kitchen tile as she moves to greet him.Malcolm takes a step back when he sees the black buttons sewn where her eyes would be, if she were his real mother.“You’re not my mother,” says Malcolm.“I’m your Other Mother, silly.  Everyone has one,” she informs him.Malcolm freezes on the spot when he hears achingly familiar footsteps.  It can’t be.“My love?” calls out the Other Mother.“Hello, my darlings.  Guess who’s home?”
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. It's a Coraline fusion AU. The Beldam is hungry.

Jessica Whilty returns from the Hamptons with her children, 11 year old Malcolm and 7 year old Ainsley. They come back sooner than planned because Jessica feels the snub from former acquaintances who were summering in the Hamptons. Her husband’s arrest, as the Manhattan serial killer who murdered 23 people, set all of Mrs. Whitly’s bridges aflame.

Jessica is admittedly not handling Martin’s arrest well; she drinks as soon as the children go to sleep. If it were simply her social life deadened from her husband’s crimes, Jessica could get by ingratiating herself with the middle class. However, Jessica is helpless when it comes to her children. Her son Malcolm does his best to protect his baby sister Ainsley when they are in the park around other children. 

To cap the end of a depressing vacation, it rains in NY for a whole week. The children are told to stay away from the basement while the contractors remodel the basement tainted by her ex-husband’s (divorce pending) monstrous appetites.

The children play in the attic amidst covered trunks, storage bins of holiday or party items, a dressmaker’s mannequin strung with belts, and too many paintings and ceramics not at all to Mrs. Whitly’s tastes. There is a small door on the wall where the ceiling slants low and the children pretend to knock and chatter about what’s behind the door. Ainsley finds a doll that looks like Malcolm, with lifelike stands of brown hair neatly parted to the side.

“Look what I’ve got! He looks like Malcolm,” shouts Ainsley. “See? See? Under his eyes is purple because he's sleepy.”

Malcolm grudgingly accepts the button-eyed doll foisted upon him. His two fingers pinch the doll’s arm, frowning at it from an arm’s length. He sneezes from the dust.

“It must’ve been modeled after one of our ancestors. I can see the family resemblance, dear. You both take very strongly after my side of the family. Thank God for that,” says Jessica.

Malcolm examines the button-eyed doll which is dressed in khaki pants, belt, V-neck sweater, Oxford collar shirt, and a bow tie. He is forced to confront the fact of the matter: he dresses like a child’s toy. He pitches his bow tie and changes out of his V-neck sweater into a zippered hoodie.

Having a serial killer father does put a damper on Malcolm’s friendships. Occasionally, Malcolm gets a visitor who he welcomes very much. The Whitly family’s eccentric neighbor across the street has a pet bird, a black capped conure, who is a shameless escape artist. The bird’s name is Connie.

Connie is a medium-sized parrot. Despite her black beak, she doesn’t shriek nearly as much as cockatoos. She has a black-hooded face and her feathers are a deep green, broken up by the intricate black and white scales around her collar. Her deep green wings have a surprising pop of red. Connie the bird flies over East 88th Street to tap Malcolm’s window on the second floor. Connie adores perching on Malcolm’s head.

When he hears the tap on his window, Malcolm pops it open.

“You got sick of your cage, did you?” says Malcolm.

Although her type of bird isn’t the most expressive in terms of parrots, Connie is openly affectionate with Malcolm. She keeps her beak mostly to herself, except for the jolly chatter when she greets him.

In exchange, Malcolm quietly harbors her for precious hours until the neighbor darkens their doorway to pick up Connie.

“My room must feel like a castle after being stuck for too long,” says Malcolm. Whenever he’s snacking on a bowl of fruit sliced by Luisa, he generously shares with Connie. One time, he had elderberries and Connie’s black feet tracked prints across his notebook. Naturally, he tore out the page for safe keeping.

His mother doesn’t like it, but Malcolm’s rare smile dissuades her from banning feathered friends. Her relative silence on the matter buys her the coveted dimple on Malcolm’s cheek.

The children cavorting in the attic does, however, draw their mother’s attention to other pests in her house. Mrs. Whitly complains about vermin and says that she will hire an exterminator post haste. Malcolm begs his mother not to let the exterminator kill the mice. Mrs. Whitly sighs before she agrees to hire an exterminator who uses humane traps.

Malcolm happily skips off to the attic to slot cheese cubes into the small cages with the trap doors. He sneaks the cheese from the appetizer tray preceding their Sunday dinner. Ainsley is much less interested in feeding the mice. 

Therefore, Malcolm is alone when he spies the unusual light glowing on the bare wooden attic floor. The light changes colors from pink to blue like from a blinking neon sign. The placement of the window wouldn’t explain such an oddity, nor would his neighborhood (his mother included) permit anything as commercial as neon lights. 

When Malcolm crawls along the floor to discover its source, he comes upon the crevices of the small attic door lit from the other side. Malcolm grips the cold handle which is painted black. His thumb depresses the latch. The little door opens for him. Malcolm takes a deep breath, gets a whiff of the attic--paper, sawdust, petrichor from the slightly cracked window--before he crawls through a narrow passageway. 

Malcolm is obliged to traverse on all fours. It’s somehow comfortable for him to do so. The floor isn’t hard on his wrists or the knobs of his knees. It reminds him of an indoor playhouse with the padded tunnels, minus the smell of socks and sweat from other children. The material is not unlike a canvas tent from Malcolm’s camping trips with his father.

In almost no time, Malcolm reaches what he assumes is the house next door. He is immediately envious of the neighbor’s setup. He sees a red and white carnival tent posted in the middle of the attic. Though the attic’s lights are off, a neon sign arches over the entrance flap of the carnival tent. MOUSE CIRCUS flickers enticingly overhead, MOUSE in blue and CIRCUS in pink. A unicycle, many hula hoops, and a skateboard lean against the wall.

Malcolm is initially tempted to look into this business of a mouse circus, but the desire to explore further wins out. Malcolm takes the stairs down, an experience that is familiar in step but alien to his disbelieving gaze. 

He is quite floored to find himself in his house again. The exact shade of paint coats the walls of the hallway. The rug lining the floor is a precise replica. He recognizes the light fixtures, their brightness, and the same polished doors where the bedrooms, supply closets, and the bathrooms are. All of the doors are shut. Malcolm shies away from trying the doors and moves onward to check whether or not he is actually in the other house.

The banister is the same. Each step is carpeted to muffle footfalls. Malcolm toes the step that he knows is creaky, and exhales slowly when his weight on the boards doesn’t make a sound. A second glance at the unremarkable carpet shows Malcolm that the carpet is pristine, absent of the stains which accumulate from daily use.

The smell of a roasted dinner appeals to him. Instead of dawdling in the guest parlor (which is for best) or the living room (are the books the same?), Malcolm follows the aroma of a warm dinner. The kitchen is usually much louder between their chef Monsieur Benoît and Luisa their nanny and Katja the house helper. 

However, the kitchen’s sole occupant is what appears to be his mother. She faces the sink as she preps a meal, humming an unknown tune that is at once wistful and melancholic. Malcolm recognizes the black and white houndstooth suit dress which is one of his mother’s favorite outfits. The golden links earrings are another piece which his mother favors. As are the slightly thick golden chain links encircling her neck.

He cannot, for the life of him, explain the ruffled white apron.

“Mother?” says Malcolm cautiously.

Her high heels click against the kitchen tile as she moves to greet him.

“You’re just in time for dinner, sweetheart,” she says, smiling with pink lipstick.

Malcolm takes a step back when he sees the black buttons sewn where her eyes would be, if she were his real mother.

“You’re not my mother,” says Malcolm.

“I’m your Other Mother, silly. Everyone has one,” she informs him. Her hands clap together, her long, red nails gleaming like the thin gold bangles around her wrists. “Now, wash your hands and come to the dinner table, at once.”

She certainly sounds like his mother. Except for how she cooks up a Sunday dinner with roast lamb and baby potatoes, Dijon mustard glazed carrots, peas with shallots and pancetta, and apple crumble for dessert. Flowers and candles fill their dining room table. The paintings and vases are exactly where they would be.

Malcolm picks at his food and asks for a cheese sandwich. He expects her to get flustered and make him eat. Instead, the Other Mother whips him up the perfect grilled cheese sandwich.

When Malcolm thanks her, the Other Mother modestly says: “A creator is only as good as her ingredients. Luckily you sent over an excellent Jarlsberg.”

“The what-- oh, the cheese for the mice,” says Malcolm.

She is much more easy going than his actual mother.

“What would you like to drink, sweetheart?” It is highly refreshing to be asked.

Malcolm immediately thinks of five sugary and caffeinated beverages that his mother would never allow afterschool.

“Root beer, please,” requests Malcolm.

“But of course. I know that’s your favorite. Would you like ice?” she offers.

“Do you have ice cream?” asks Malcolm hesitantly.

The Other Mother scoops vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream into a tall glass. Then she swirls whipped cream on top, adds rainbow sprinkles, and a silly, loopy, pink straw. Once Malcolm finishes his soda with a burp, the Other Mother invites him to the guest parlor for a spirited game of darts.

“Oh no!” cries Malcolm when his dart flies into the oil painting of his great great great great great(?) Uncle Douglas. Specifically, on his ancestor’s trademark Milton button nose.

“Nice shot! I’ll bet you can’t do that again!” dares the Other Mother.

Their game of darts is interrupted by the front door shutting closed. Malcolm’s dart lands on the floor, the pointed end stuck into the Oriental rug. Malcolm freezes on the spot when he hears achingly familiar footsteps. It can’t be.

“My love?” calls out the Other Mother.

“Hello, my darlings. Guess who’s home?” A bearded gentleman enters their makeshift game area wearing a tweed suit jacket with elbow patches. He is well built with a slight tummy under his blue button up shirt. The Other Mother hugs the man and pecks him on the lips. From the side, he looks exactly like Martin Whitly. 

Malcolm recoils when the man looks at him with button eyes.

“Is that any way to greet me, son?”

“Daddy?”

“Who else? ‘Tis I, your better father,” he retorts to Malcolm.

“Be gentle with him, my love. Our son is perplexed.” The Other Mother relinquishes him and bends down to meet Malcolm at eye level. Her long, red fingernails drag the skirt of her houndstooth suit dress. “This is your Other Father, darling.”

“Daddy, you belong in jail,” says Malcolm. “It’s the law.”

The Other Father bends the knee and extends his arms to Malcolm. “Come here, my boy. Explanations are in order.”

Malcolm gulps before he gets a running start, flinging himself into the man’s arms. The groomed beard lightly scrapes Malcolm’s cheek. The man’s neck feels thick and solid under Malcolm’s hand. He smells like toasted bread.

The Other Father sweeps Malcolm onto the chaise. Malcolm huddles onto his lap without a second thought.

“Listen, my dear boy. Out there, I am imprisoned for many terrible sins. Here, why, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. There’s no one in this world besides you and your mother. I am free to be with my family. You can stay with me, or rather, you can stay with us both…” The Other Father trails off and the Other Mother approaches the chaise, her slender fingers creeping over the padded shoulder of his tweed suit jacket.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely, my love? Our son can have us both.” The Other Mother smooches the top of Malcolm’s head just so.

“What about Ainsley?” asks Malcolm, wiggling around.

“Next time, bring her here with you. We belong together,” says the Other Mother.

Malcolm blinks groggily, his energy levels plunging when his sugary beverage wears off and when he realizes that he doesn’t have to be scared.

“I know what that means,” says the Other Father when Malcolm yawns. “Time for sleep!”

“Awww,” protests Malcolm. “But I’m not tired. You just got here.”

“How about you and I pick up where we left off, then? Had you finished the tale of our hapless Dantès?” asks the Other Father. “We can do reading before bed.”

“Don’t stay up too late. I require beauty rest and so do you, my loves,” says the Other Mother with a slight frown.

They follow Malcolm up the stairs from the guest parlor. The Other Mother’s fingers tap him when Malcolm continues toward the attic.

“Where are you going, sweetheart? Bed is that way.” Her long finger points toward a hallway almost identical to the one in his family’s house.

“I have to go back,” answers Malcolm.

“You are back. This is your home. And there is your room,” insists the Other Mother. Malcolm finds it difficult to argue when he is gently pushed towards a door located where his actual bedroom would be. Malcolm is a bit disoriented when he recognizes the windows and the ceiling and his bed. Instead of the constellation nightlight, glowing paper birds flutter along his ceiling. His walls look freshly painted, the Space Races stickers gone.

“Draw your weapon, rapscallion! Do you scheme to best me whilst lying down?” utters the Other Father dramatically. Malcolm grins when he flops onto soft silk pillows from catching a foam sword tossed his way.

Malcolm remembers crossing swords with the Other Father before the sunlight gets in his eyes. He awakens in his bedroom, with the usual things out of place (troll dolls, goblin mask) that he forgot to clean up. He scrambles to the bookshelf in his room, desperate to put his hands on the book from last night. Malcolm hurts his foot on a plastic triceratop and spiny stegosaurus canoodling on top of mittens and a sock. Then Malcolm plops down on the floor and puts his hands over his ears, rocking himself into any semblance of normalcy.

He lost his copy of the book written by Alexander Dumas, the one that his real dad gave to him before Officer Arroyo arrested his real dad. Malcolm doesn’t understand how he could have read Dumas last night unless he dreamed it up. Malcolm’s blue eyes settle on the button-eyed doll which he doesn't remember sleeping with in the bed. He shrugs before snapping up the doll to conduct an investigation.

Malcolm scuttles to the attic in his pajamas and checks the mouse traps, exhilarated when not one crumble of cheese remains in any of the traps. However, try as he might to pry his fingers into the wallpaper, the little door remains irrevocably locked.

He forgot to brush his teeth last night. His teeth feel a little fuzzy under his tongue. When Malcolm bites his lip in frustration, he tastes root beer.

* * *

Dr. Gabrielle, his therapist, is surprised when Malcolm turns down the dum dums in her free candy jar. Sometimes, the lollipops are sticky and kind of gummy when he wants to crunch it into sweet little crumbles.

Instead of the puppy dog plushie, Malcolm puts the button-eyed miniature doll version of himself on his knee while they talk. Dr. Gabrielle laughs when Malcolm sprawls in his chair to mimic his lifeless little friend. “That is uncanny, Malcolm. Look at you with your l’il dude.”

Malcolm tells her about his dreams.

“And your father was there?” repeats Dr. Gabrielle. She is a pretty black lady with her afro puffy like broccoli.

“No, it was my Other Father,” Malcolm explains patiently. “Dad is still in jail.” His mother said so to him earlier, vehemently, after making a quick phone call.

“A vivid dream judging by your recall, but it doesn’t sound terrifying,” says Dr. Gabrielle. “In fact, compared to the usual unpleasantness, I would dare say that you had a good dream. A positive one.”

“It was so real. I was with the Other Mother and Other Father in the Other House. There wasn’t an Other Ainsley, but I don’t think I would like her as much as I would like a friend that I can play with. And who isn’t a girl,” says Malcolm.

“What’s wrong with girls?” inquires Dr. Gabrielle mildly.

“Girls are just as good as boys,” says Malcolm, repeating what his father and mother taught him. “But I already have Ainsley. I don’t need another sister.”

“You’re the best big brother. Go ahead wit yo sweet self,” says Dr. Gabrielle.

“Should I do something about these dreams, Miss Gabrielle?”

“I wouldn’t be too worried, honey child. No matter how scary they get, all you gotta do is wake up in your own bed knowing you’re safe. You do know that, right, Malcolm? You’re safe. Every child should feel safe inside their house.”

“Even in my house?”

“Do you have any reason to feel afraid, with your father in prison?” points out Dr. Gabrielle.

Malcolm shakes his head. “I guess not.”

* * *

He doesn’t have an Other dream for weeks. The autumn leaves harkening the midterms of his school semester give way to snow. The street plows chug away on banks of snow measuring several feet in height. The parents’ cars get buried, but the kids on their block are having a good old time with plenty of goose down to roll into hearty snowmen.

His mother lets them out of the house, but poor Luisa has to pull on her furry boots and hop after Malcolm and Ainsley. Her matronly plumpness leaves her at a disadvantage as she sinks in the snow with the tiny Whitly children sliding along the snow drifts like penguins. Ainsley volunteers her sparky hat for a snowman in progress, winning friends among little girls who are already outside playing. 

Between the hat, earmuffs, scarf, and insulated winter suit, Malcolm’s face is semi-obscured. He gets hit with snowballs and retaliates without thinking. Then Malcolm is drafted as a winter soldier in an all out snowball fight with the kids who normally don’t play with him. He’s so caught up in the heated chase and the showmanship that he doesn’t notice when a frigid gust unwinds his scarf, baring his rosy face to the chill. Then the kids who are bandying handmade projectiles disappear, melting into the shadows.

It takes a while for Malcolm, his boots crunching in the quiet snow, to realize that he’s been running around by himself, breath puffing over nothing.

Then the snowballs come fast. And hard. His ear stings in the cold. Then a light sets off behind his eyelids when a snowball clocks his face. The soft flakes fly apart upon impact, unleashing a sharp rock lodged inside. His cheek goes numb where the rock smarts him. His mitten sticks to his cheek. His stomach gets sick from the copper smell of warm blood. The other children know they’re in trouble when they see blood. They smack one another, to suss out the rock thrower, before scattering to the winds.

“Malcolm, Malcolm!” cries Ainsley. “Are you playing freeze tag?”

Malcolm gropes for his scarf and wraps the bottom of his face before Ainsley sees. He goes to find Luisa.

Luisa gets a hot bath running for Ainsley who dances snow into the foyer. His mother swoops all over him before Malcolm can dodge into a different bathroom like a scarf ninja. 

“An icicle did this?” repeats his mother. She exchanges her glass of bourbon for a greater evil: the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. His tears are hot and the hydrogen peroxide is so cold before the cut on his face burns like it’s a stinky fire. 

“Yes, Mother. The icicle fell down and got me,” says Malcolm. Liar, liar, face on fire.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t scar. I want you to wear a cap over your face from now on. Keep your skin out of the sun.” His mother dabs antibacterial ointment over the cut. Malcolm gets one boring skin colored band-aid for his troubles.

“Did you finish your homework and reading, Malcolm?” inquires his mother.

“Yes, Mother.”

“You and Ainsley can play. Inside. Until dinner. Mommy’s going to have a little lie down,” says his mother. She almost tips over and catches herself on a table that is positioned for looks. “Luisa?”

“I’ve got it, Mrs. Whitly,” says Luisa. She grabs the discarded first aid supplies and ushers Malcolm to the TV with promises of hot chocolate later.

Ainsley forks down her potatoes and even finishes the small cubes of beef that she doesn’t like chewing; that’s how hungry she is from the snow day. Malcolm does okay with potatoes and veggies, relying on his molars opposite from his bruised cheek, until he pokes the beef. The reddish-pink in the center of the meat puts him off.

“Malcolm, you need the iron and the protein,” says his mother. “Eat it or you get no dessert, no sweets.” His mother intercepts Luisa and sends away Malcolm’s hot chocolate.

“Mommy, look!” says Ainsley. She holds up her empty plate.

“Good job, Ainsley. You cleaned your plate! I’m so proud of you,” encourages their mother. Ainsley gets hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream, caramel syrup, and a maraschino cherry.

Malcolm sits in his chair, mouth clenched from the fact that his mother pushed the food around her own plate, filling up instead on glass after glass of wine.

“Don’t give me that look, young man. If you’re quite finished, you can take a shower and go straight to bed. I expect lights off, no reading.” His mother shudders delicately. “No reading your graphic novels. Too many comics and video games aren’t good for your state of mind, dear.”

He sneaks to the kitchen later that night and almost forgets to stop the microwave before it beeps. He scalds his fingertips on the hot mug full of steaming milk. Malcolm stubs his toe before knocking over boxes of cereal, feeling around for the canister of powdered cocoa. He sprays the whipped cream right into his mouth and twirls around on his wool socks before topping off his illicit beverage with ambitious swirls and two! maraschino cherries. Hot chocolate drips onto his hand as Malcolm tiptoes up the stairs, avoiding the creaky step.

Malcolm drops the hot chocolate when a small mouse with a long curly Q tail bounds up the stairs. He thanks his lucky stars that his mug didn't break. He grabs the empty, heated mug by its sticky handle and leaps down the hallway. For once, his ballet lessons come in handy. He pursues the small mouse with the curly Q tail to the top level. 

Though he anticipates the glowing little door in the attic, Malcolm weighs the mug in his hand, feeling the chipped glaze from where he mishandled it, the stickiness from the whipped cream, and the aroma of cocoa. He instinctively knows that he is awake. The mouse’s tail flits through the door. Malcolm abandons the warm mug, leaving it off to the side while he hunkers down. 

Malcolm is unnerved to wander through an empty house void of Other people, bypassing the mouse circus tent in the Other attic, going in and out of his Other bedroom, then Ainsley’s Other bedroom, and losing his courage when he encounters the double doors where his Mother’s suite of rooms would be. The doors are locked and he doesn’t try the knobs any further because he ought to be asleep. 

Malcolm sucks in a breath and braves the stairs to the basement. The lights are already on and he hears the noise of a pinball machine and an arcade platform for Dance Dance Revolution, arrows scrolling on the video screen. The basement is carpeted with a motif of the planets in the solar system. 

Malcolm surprises the Other Father who is blowing bubbles with pink gum while playing on their Super Nintendo console. He is sprawled on a sectional couch with drink holders and foot rests deployed.

“Daddy? I thought Mother threw out our games,” says Malcolm. He has his N64, PlayStation, and Game Boy in color.

“Your Other Mother wouldn’t dare. She knows you too well to take away the things you love,” says the Other Father.

“What happened to your workshop?” asks Malcolm.

“I don’t need it anymore. Thought you would appreciate more space for a playroom. Would you care to join me, Player One?” asks the Other Father.

Malcolm jumps onto the couch. The game play has him squirming with his feet on the cushions (against house rules) until he’s bumping elbows with the Other Father. Before he knows it, Malcolm pillows his cheek onto the Other Father’s leg, his gaze riveted on the screen, playing sideways with his controller.

“Yay, my turn!” says the Other Father when Malcolm dies in the game.

Malcolm doesn’t understand how he lost. His controller thuds the carpet.

“Hey now, we’ll just play again. It’s only a game, son.”

The awful snow day he had catches up to Malcolm. He itches under the band aid on his face which serves as another reminder. He wants to kick something, or rather, kick someone.

“I hate you!” shrieks Malcolm. “I don’t have friends back at home because of you! Someone threw a rock at me today! If you were my real dad, you should’ve been there!”

“I can’t leave when you do,” replies the Other Father. His hands wring together. “It’s better for everyone that I stay right where I am. It’s safe here. Comfortable, too. Out there are people who cast their stones. The world out there is scary and dangerous. It can make someone scary and dangerous. But I can be the Better Father in this house. Anything you want, I can give it to you.”

“Daddy, do you still need to hurt people?” Malcolm shies back as though he were toeing a thin, red line.

“No. In truth, I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” says the Other Father so earnestly that Malcolm almost believes.

“Not to mention, the food’s pretty great,” he adds. “I don’t see your mother cooking for me.”

Malcolm’s stomach gurgles and the Other Father laughs and rubs the front of his red cardigan. “I don’t know about you, my boy, but I am famished.”

“Dinner’s ready!” The Other Mother doesn’t make a sound when she saunters into their cave.

“I hope you don’t mind all the finger food,” says the Other Mother, sighing. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t make the canapés happen.”

She manages to fill the dinner table with platters of food, but it is not with fare that is up to Mrs. Whitly’s evening standards: chicken nuggets, pizza bagels, fried mozzarella sticks, potato wedges, and nachos. For dessert, Malcolm can have all the blueberry cupcakes with cream cheese frosting that he can stand.

“It is a shame that you didn’t bring your sister,” sighs the Other Mother. Her fingers fold beneath her dimpled chin, her face turned to the untouched place setting and the empty chair.

“We would love to have you both,” echoes the Other Father.

Ainsley had been the last person on his mind. Malcolm guiltily drinks his hot chocolate. Unlike the one that he sneaked, the Other Mother added the right amount of cocoa to the steamed milk and an actual peppermint candy spoon that Malcolm tastes with each sip.

“I’ll come back with Ainsley. I promise,” says Malcolm.

“Of course you will, sweetheart. We’re counting on you,” cooes the Other Mother. “Now how about games?”

The Other Mother builds a 3D puzzle of a carousel. Malcolm and the Other Father are pitted in a territorial game of Scrabble. Malcolm feels pretty good about his chances until the Other Father manages to land the letter X on a blue triple letter square. It’s as Malcolm expects. He gives the Other Father a little hug to show no hard feelings before the Other Mother turns a wooden crank on the carousel puzzle and the whole apparatus moves in a mesmerizing series of clicks.

Malcolm’s lids grow heavy and he relaxes under the feel of his dad’s hand patting his hair.

* * *

In the morning, Malcolm faces a reckoning before he gets the chance to pour syrup over his waffles.

“Malcolm Whitly, did you sneak out of your room last night to drink hot chocolate? After I expressly forbid you from sweets?!” Their mother is beside herself.

Ainsley carefully eats her waffle, nibbling quietly with her mouth closed, while Malcolm gets yelled at before school. Their mother takes the syrup from Malcolm.

“You have twenty minutes to clean up the mess you left in the hallway. Then Adolpho will take you to school. I hope for your sake that the cocoa doesn’t leave an unsightly stain on the carpet. If I must replace the carpet, it is coming out of your allowance. That means no new video games, no new books, no movie theater nights, until the service bill is settled. Do you hear me, young man?!”

His mother points to the door, in the direction of the crime scene which Malcolm left behind.

“What were you thinking? You know better than to leave someone else to clean up your mess.”

The hot chocolate does leave a stain on the carpet. Luisa sits with Malcolm, instructing him to blot not rub, and she brings out the dreaded brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He dabs some on the chocolate stain and Luisa promises to finish blotting out the rest of the stain while Malcolm goes to school.

“Your mommy loves you very much. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t fuss over you,” says Luisa. “I’ve watched kids who get their way every time. You wouldn’t believe how rotten those poor little souls become. This is good for you, mijo.”

His hands smell like spoiled chocolate and it makes him nauseous.

Malcolm grabs his school bag and peeks into the dining room. He rolls his eyes when he sees his mother pouring a bottle of spirits into her coffee mug. 

He’s not allowed any dessert after dinner. Malcolm squirms out from his mother’s hand and stomps to his bedroom when she touches his cheek to inspect the skin healing from his cut.

Connie the conure taps on his window. He puts his hurt cheek to her deep green feathers. Connie fluffs her feathers, making herself extra soft.

“Thank you, birdie,” he murmurs gratefully.

Their neighbor, Mr. Belskie, comes back knocking. The neighbor is a tall white man with a pencil thin mustache. He wears a long wool coat and a scarf patched with different blocks of color. Malcolm spots the neighbor from the window and intercepts before the ringing of the doorbell can incite his mother’s ire. He’s terribly afraid that Connie won’t be allowed to visit because of the hot chocolate scandal.

Malcolm hands her over to Mr. Belskie, seeking to minimize his troubles.

“Evening, tiny child. I see you have looked after my fickle friend,” says Mr. Belskie. His nose is hooked not unlike Connie’s. He brings Connie to his shoulder. Connie waddles toward Mr. Belskie’s neck and sticks her beak into Mr. Belskie’s ear.

Mr. Belskie tilts his head and catches the door before Malcolm can shut it.

“It is too bad you do not speak birb. My fickle friend has been telling you many times. Beware door,” informs Mr. Belskie. “Now whatever could she mean in an old house such as this? With a history such as this?”

“I don’t know,” says Malcolm. “Good night, Mr. Belskie. Bye Connie.”

* * *

Malcolm can’t find the miniature button-eyed doll that looks like him. He trudges all over the house with Ainsley following him around. Finally, he climbs into the attic and discovers the doll underneath the dressmaker’s mannequin doll. When Malcolm bends down to scoop up the button-eyed doll, he notices the key strung around the mannequin’s neck, glinting on top of the vintage leather belts looped around its waist.

The key is black, weightier than it looks, with the iron metal cast in the shape of a button.

“Ains, look at this!” says Malcolm. The light shines through the four tiny holes in the black button key.

“It’s pretty, but where does it go?” inquires Ainsley.

Malcolm puts the key in the small attic door. He turns the key in the lock.

Ainsley claps her little hands. The blond wisps over her fair brows flap from the motions of her clapping. “You found it, big brother! Way to go!”

“I’ll go first. You stay right behind…”

“Ladies first!” shouts Ainsley. She lunges into the narrow passageway, the skirts of her dinner dress swinging side to side. Malcolm is behind her, but from a distance, because she’s wearing a dress. She’s wearing opaque white stockings, but Malcolm really doesn’t want to see London, France, her underpants. It’s why he wanted to go in front.

“Ainsley, wait for me to cross!” shouts Malcolm. He hurries when he loses sight of her. The last thing he sees at the end of the tunnel is her Mary Janes shoes running off.

Malcolm feels the stirrings of panic when he doesn’t see her in the Other attic. The blinking neon lights over the carnival tent get his attention. The Mouse Circus. When Malcolm can breathe again, he smells buttered popcorn.

Malcolm hustles into the carnival tent. In his haste, he bumps into Ainsley who is standing stock still.

“Watch it, Malcolm. You pushed me!” whines Ainsley, giving him a light shove in return.

Malcolm is more than a bit dazed because they are standing inside a tent that inhabits more space than the Other attic. A whole circus exists under the carnival tent, with seating for a small audience, and a flat arena enclosed within a circular fence striped red and white. Many clean white mice sit in the audience area, each one seated in its chair. Their curly Q tails and large ears and little pink noses twitch and turn.

Then both of their attention is caught by the appearance of the Other Mr. Belskie, the owner of Connie the conure. He ushers them inside, shaking both of their hands and thanking them enthusiastically for coming to his circus. His black button eyes shine.

Malcolm and Ainsley get front row and center seating. Other Belskie does magic, flapping open one lapel of his usual wool coat and handing them buckets of popcorn. Then Other Belskie throws off his wool coat and underneath he is wearing a double breasted marching band outfit with the metal fringes and golden embellishments on his shoulders, collar, and sleeves.

Other Belskie then blows a whistle and the mice charge out of their seats in formations. The mice stand on top of one another, using their paws and tails to spell out Malcolm’s name first and then Ainsley’s. The mice hop around, forming pointed star shapes and staggered circles, moving like a teeming spirograph, before spelling out: Welcome!

Malcolm and Ainsley cheer louder when inflated balls get tossed and the mice gain control of the toys. The mice are very balanced and coordinated as they conduct their tricks, be it running on top of the spinning ball or tossing the balls and catching it on their paws.

The two children remain dazzled with stars in their eyes when they leave the tent. They don’t notice the mice darting underfoot and into the narrow passageway leading back home. Kernels of popcorn fall out of Ainsley’s dress. Malcolm’s hair harbors a few kernels as well from when they threw the popcorn in their excitement over the mouse tricks.

As yummy as the popcorn was, they’re both hungry and long overdue for nibbles, it feels like.

“Malcolm, I wanna go home and eat,” says Ainsley.

“Let’s try the kitchen. The Other Mother and Other Father will be happy that you’re visiting,” says Malcolm.

“The Other what?” repeats Ainsley.

Malcolm repeats himself. “The Other Mother and Father. Everyone has one, silly.”

“Malcolm, how was the show?” gushes the Other Mother when she sees both children. She pulls chicken in a roasting pan from the oven.

“Look at the two of you. I never thought I would see it!” exclaims the Other Father.

“Who are these people?” asks Ainsley. She gets behind Malcolm, shaking her head when she notices their button eyes.

Her objections are similar to Malcolm’s. Though she sits at the dinner table, so as not to be rude, Ainsley doesn’t eat one bite of the food besides drinking the whole glass of water. She is thirsty after spoiling her appetite with popcorn.

Ainsley is not tempted by the tray of cookies and she frowns at the Other Mother.

“I want to go home,” says Ainsley.

“Ains,” huffs Malcolm. “This is her first visit here. I’m sorry.”

“Visit? Oh no,” giggles the Other Mother. “You’re not simply visiting. You live here now.”

“I don’t want to live in a weird house under a mouse circus,” objects Ainsley.

“Your brother feels differently. Don’t you, darling?” retorts the Other Mother.

“It’s okay, son. We know that you love it here. No one can tell you what to eat, when to sleep, or make you clean. You have discovered paradise lost,” says the Other Father.

“It’s fun,” agrees Malcolm. He stands up and excuses himself. “But if Ainsley doesn’t like it, I can take her home and come right back for games. No one would miss me.”

“That will not do. Brothers and sisters belong together, with both parents,” says the Other Mother.

“Besides, we have gifts for you two. To celebrate. Doesn’t that sound fun?” teases the Other Father.

“What kinda gifts? Is it toys?” asks Ainsley. “We have plenty of books. If it’s books, Malcolm can have mine.”

Ainsley opens a striped pink box with a pearly bow. Malcolm receives a striped deep green box with a black bow.

“What the…?” Ainsley trails off.

Malcolm’s jaw drops from the contents of his box, his stomach turning from the pair of buttons staring into him. Just beneath the button eyes is a spool of thread with the needle tucked in.

“It wouldn’t hurt one teensy bit,” says the Other Father. He plucks the needle from Malcolm’s box and prods his finger. “See?”

“No way, José,” says Ainsley. Luisa is rubbing off on her.

“But you see, if you want to be in our family, you must,” insists the Other Mother.

Ainsley crosses her arms. “No.”

Malcolm grabs her hand before Ainsley can sweep their gifts to the floor. She glares at Malcolm, her hands bunching into little fists besides the dinner utensils.

“You’re not my real mommy,” says Ainsley. “You’re gross and creepy.”

“Apologize at once, Miss Ainsley,” says the Other Mother. Her voice drops to a menacing whisper. She stoops down, putting her sharp face imposingly up to Ainsley’s.

With a screech, Ainsley grabs the Other Mother’s hair and slashes the serrated knife greasy from the chicken. The Other Mother screams as her button eyes roll to the floor. 

The black button key falls out of the Other Mother’s blouse. Malcolm grabs the key before Ainsley takes his hand. The greasy knife scrapes the walls as both Malcolm and Ainsley run for the attic.

Ainsley is faster than him. Malcolm is already winded and more than a little embarrassed as he is dragged towards home. On the last flight of stairs, the floor boards fall away. They both jump frantically like mice. Their hands let go when the carnival tent collapses in the attic.

The neon blue and pink light buzzes eerily but it illuminates their path home which is breaking apart as the Other Mother’s screams shake the walls to ruin. Malcolm finds the tunnel first. His hands break through cobwebs. His small frame folds into the passageway.

“Ains! Ains!” he cries out.

“Brother? Help me!” shouts Ainsley. She is fallen down, surrounded not by cute mice but by large patchy haired sewer rats with red eyes shining evil. Ainsley fends them off with the greasy knife.

Malcolm kicks at the rats and pulls Ainsley’s dress until her ankles are freed from the tangle of rat tails coiled to entrap her. Ainsley loses her Mary Janes shoes.

This time, Malcolm makes sure that Ainsley goes through first. When he sees that she is on her way, can hear her going “ew ew ew”, Malcolm stops guarding the small door and dives into the cobwebs.

The attic floor breaks under his feet and Malcolm is left dangling in a sticky cobweb. The Other Mother’s laugh is pitched high and it sounds like she is everywhere, which is terrifying when she looks like she is nowhere in the empty space that used to look like an attic.

Something pushes his feet. When Malcolm looks down, he bursts into tears. It is the Other Father who grasps his brown shoe. The Other Father’s hair is snarled like yarn and shedding from his scalp.

“Please let me go,” begs Malcolm. “Don’t hurt me, Daddy. Please.”

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,” quoth the Other Father. He moves back, the bulk of his body straining as he shoves Malcolm into the narrow passageway. The door slams, jolting Malcolm from his fish-mouthed blank eyed staring. Malcolm crawls as quickly as possible, his elbows and legs stinging and aching from harsh use.

Malcolm doesn’t stop even when he gets a stitch in his side. He falls into the attic and the key skitters on the floor. Ainsley closes the door and throws herself onto it. She almost falls over from the increasingly loud bangs which follow them.

“Malcolm! Gimme the key!” hisses Ainsley.

Malcolm rolls over and frantically feels around until he finds it. Ainsley grabs it from him. She stabs the key into the lock.

An unseen force knocks them over and both of them go sliding into the dressmaker’s mannequin and a stack of boxes. Malcolm’s nose stings. He tastes blood. He’s pretty sure he’s got a blackened eye. Ainsley’s knees are bloodied and her stockings are gray with dust and cobwebs. He knows that his mother will be cross with the both of them.

But he can’t wait to give her the biggest hug ever. Before he is grounded for life.

Luisa stops them when she sees them. She dumps them into a hot bath and the children submit to a hellish scouring.

“Go to bed, children. Your mother must be running late from her show at the theater,” says Luisa.

Neither Malcolm nor Ainsley sleep a single wink. They keep up their vigil in Malcolm’s bed, under the blanket with flashlights, startling every time the house groans at night. When the household arises, there is trouble in the air, for Mrs. Whitly is not yet home. 

Ainsley waits at the bottom of the attic stairs while Malcolm tiptoes toward the small attic door. He picks up the miniature button-eyed doll waiting for him by the door and grabs it by its neck. 

“Where is my mother?!” demands Malcolm. No matter how hard Malcolm strangles the nasty little thing, it remains silent, its sewn up lips smirked permanently with secrets.

Malcolm goes to the living room and uses the phone. Ainsley clings to her big brother tightly, her eyes rimmed red from crying all night.

“Gil? Hello, my mother is missing,” says Malcolm. “We know who took her. There’s a woman and a man who are impersonators living in the walls. They want me and Ainsley. They took our mother.”

“Sounds like you had a nightmare, kid. You and your sister both. I don’t blame you. I’ve already heard the bad news. I'm going to speak with your neighbors who might have seen something last night. Then I'm calling the theater and finding out who your mother spoke with last night. I’ll be driving on your street later on, when I’m done with my day route,” promises Gil. “You can come with me on patrol, if that helps.”

“Thank you, Gil. Me and Ainsley will follow our lead inside the house,” says Malcolm somberly.

Gil takes him seriously as though Malcolm were a sane adult. Gil is the best policeman he knows. “You do that, kids. Stay safe. Don’t go outside alone. Be there as soon as I can.”

“What did Uncle Gil say?” asks Ainsley.

“We’re on our own. It’s up to us to get our mother back,” answers Malcolm.

“Are we going back?” Ainsley is still afraid, but the idea of action, even unwise actions, seems to calm her down.

“I’m going back. You have to stay behind so that Mother doesn’t get lost again,” says Malcolm. He frowns at the doll. “That’s right, you can tell the Other Mother to expect me.”

“Malcolm, why are you talking to the toy doll?”

“It’s her spy. How else would the Other Mother know so much about this house and our family? We have to burn it.”

Malcolm and Ainsley make a huge sooty mess and they singe the floor as the button-eyed doll burns in the fireplace. Though Luisa scolds them, their mother is not yet returned.

Malcolm is changing into his pajamas after a bath when he looks in the fogged mirror and sees his mother’s image reflected in the bathroom glass. Her hair is floating around her head as though she were underwater. Her silk gown undulates and her golden earrings are hovering over the tops of her ears.

There’s an unusual brown tinge to her skin. His mother beats on the glass and shakes her head, her frantic pleas caught inside the bubbles escaping her lips. Before her image fades, Malcolm can see the corner of something large and white in the background of his mother’s cage or wherever the Other Mother has trapped her.

Malcolm bloodies his hand when he punches at the mirror, hoping against hope that it will set her free.

Ainsley throws her angel figurine through her window. She shouts over and over again that their mother is drowning in dirty water.

Luisa locks them inside Malcolm’s bedroom, foiling their plan to retrieve their mother in the Other world. The only reason why they’re not separated is because of the draught blowing in from Ainsley’s busted window.

Connie the conure once more taps his window. Malcolm and Ainsley invite her inside. Try as they might to tell Connie about their mother and try as Connie might to advise them, the barrier between birb and children is too vast.

Luisa brings the neighbor Mr. Belskie to the door. He translates Connie’s message for Malcolm and Ainsley. “Your mother is hidden closer than you think. Look for her. Don't trust door.” Mr. Belskie tips his feathered fedora to them. “Best of luck, you rugrats.”

Despite word from the bird, another night slips away from them with no sign of Mrs. Whitly. Gil keeps his promise to show up. Luisa (as a chaperon) and Ainsley sit in the back of the patrol car while Malcolm rides shotgun. Gil stays for dinner as well. He tries to pour himself a drink, but Mrs. Whitly’s favorite bottle of spirits won’t open.

“Good night, you guys. I have to go home and sleep. But if there’s anything I can do for you, call me,” says Gil. His hand finds the back of Malcolm’s neck like always but this time his arm also encircles Ainsley. He holds the both of them together. “I know I have not seen the last of Jessica Whitly.”

Malcolm and Ainsley appreciate Gil's support more than they can say. Especially when what they have to say to an adult makes absolutely no sense.

Their mother’s image appears to them in a hallway mirror, when Malcolm and Ainsley are on their way to the attic, black button key in hand. They hold onto each other as they read their mother’s lips. _Don’t go back. Don’t go back._ Their mother strikes the glass with each word, her force of will so powerful that the mirror tips off the wall and crashes on the hallway floor, leaving dangerous shrapnel that blocks them from the attic stairs.

“I think we should listen to Connie the bird. We shouldn't go back,” says Malcolm.

“But the Other Mother took her. Where else can Mommy be?” demands Ainsley. She looks like she wants to strap on boots and crunch over the broken glass to get to their mother.

“Ainsley, what was behind our mother? She’s trying to show us where she is,” says Malcolm. Both he and Ainsley are sitting beside the fallen mirror and the busted glass, their legs curled to their chests.

“We don’t have fishies in a tank,” says Ainsley.

“I don’t think she’s in water. It was brown. A light brown. Sort of like…” Malcolm leaps to his feet and almost falls down the stairs in his haste to reach the dining room. Ainsley chases after him, just in time to see Malcolm raise a bottle of spirits over his head.

“Malcolm, no! That’s Mommy’s favorite!” cries Ainsley.

“It won’t open! We’ve got to!” shouts Malcolm. He recognizes the large white corner as the bottle's label from visions of his mother. His mother was right to stop them from crossing over and right into the monster's trap.

“What are you little devils up to now?!” shrieks Luisa. But she is too late. Malcolm smashes the bottle into bits.

Luisa snatches his shoulders and slaps his cheek. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but when Mrs. Whitly hears of this--!!”

“Can all of you be quiet, please? It’s been a long night,” groans Jessica. She holds her strappy heels in her hand and clutches her forehead with the other, stooped from a hangover. She reeks like a distillery.

Malcolm and Ainsley jump on top of her and refuse to let go.

“Luisa, I need one of your cures. And then I’m going to dry up for a while,” vows Jessica, who has clearly learned her lesson about certain indulgences. “Children, children, go easy on your mother. Oh God.”

Malcolm looks into his mother’s tired and sorrowful eyes. Real ones, with a soul, not made of plastic and thread and pretty lies.

“We love you, Mommy,” cries Ainsley.

“Welcome back,” says Malcolm. He is in so much trouble. But honestly, someone could set him on fire, and he wouldn’t let go.

“Was I gone?” wonders Jessica. After a moment, she closes her eyes and contents herself with getting cried on and snotted on, extremely grateful to feel their little hearts pounding away. Her desire to get away fades into a pleasant buzz.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> You know them Whitlys tossed that key into a sewage drain. Fuuuuuck that.
> 
> This fic could've been a bit longer if the Beldam/Other Mother had made Malcolm a puppet friend. But once I hit 18 pages, I was done before the story ended lulz. Bad, bad me.
> 
> And yes, I was heavy handed with the whole "Jessica crawls into a bottle" thing. The Beldam made me do it.


End file.
